“I should imagine he’ll be here for the weekend, at least. And he’ll bring friends.” And his butler and personal chef, laa-dee-daa. “The castle will also be closed this weekend.”
“Closed?”
She nods. “To the general public. I’m not sure if you’re aware, but the castle and some of the grounds were used as a location on an upcoming Hollywood blockbuster. Or so we all hope. And Sandy is hosting a dinner on Friday night for the director and some of the stars. I believe a number of them will be here for the weekend.” A deep sigh overtakes her. “It’s been a while since we had a house party.”
The only house party I’ve been to are the kinds that serve Cheetos as hors d’oeuvres, use red Solo cups, and offer an aperitif in the form of cheap keg beer. I mean, I’ve been to parties, sure. And dinner parties, but house parties conjure up visions of my college days.
“Should I grab some paper to take notes?”
“Oh. No.” She waves my offer away. “McCain will have it all under control, along with Chrissy. They know the form of old. Holly, I just wanted to say that I appreciate all your help, taking on extra work, helping with the boys, and so on.”
“Honestly, it’s my pleasure. They’re such great kids, and they’re going to grow to be the best kind of men.” Maybe I should’ve kept that to myself as her eyes fill with tears almost immediately. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“No.” She dabs at the corner of her eye. “Thank you. That means a lot to me.”
“It’s only the truth.” I shrug a little uncomfortably, suddenly wishing I had a little of Isla’s poise and dignity as she leans forward, setting the cup and saucer onto the coffee table.
“With the castle closed, you’ll have the weekend to yourself.”
Which is the polite way of saying I’m not wanted, I think cynically.
“Would you like me to move back into the cottage?” Urgh, please say no.
“There’s no need for that,” she replies evenly.
“You won’t need the room for your guests?”
“What do you think?” Her eyes twinkle with mirth.
“That you have space for a battalion or two,” I reply, “but—”
“The battalion will be housed, and you will keep your room in the family apartments. Feel free to come and go as you please. Perhaps you’d like to join the party for dinner on Friday night? Meet some of Hollywood’s leading lights?”
“That’s very kind of you, but”—that sounds like a nightmare evening— “I already have plans.” I’m hardly a seasoned fancy dinner party guest. I mean, I’m not exactly a heathen, and I know a fork is supposed to be held in your left hand, but what fork do you eat souffle with? Or do you eat it with a spoon? I’ve examined the table setting in the formal dining room, the one set out for the tourists. The amount of china, silver, and glassware was enough to create an anxiety spike. So, nope! Nope, thank you! “But thank you for the invite.”
“I completely understand. But if you change your mind, do let McCain know as soon as you can.”
“That’s the butler, right?”
“Yes, though he’s more like Sandy’s sergeant major,” she says with a small laugh. “The boys adore him. And their uncle, of course.”
“And you won’t need my help with them over the weekend?” Say, to hide more damaged heirlooms?
“Thank you, but no. You enjoy your weekend.”
“I’m sure I will.”
“Doing anything interesting?” Her question is accompanied by a smile that seems to say, come on, girl! Spill the tea!
“I might have a date.” My smile is a reflection of hers and comes without the tingle of anticipation I know I should feel. It’s only natural, I tell myself. But it really is time I moved on.
17
Alexander
With my phone in hand, my thumb hovers over my assistant’s number for the second time in as many minutes before I drop it to the arm of the chair. Pressing call would only add selfishness to the list of my shortcomings. Because I wouldn’t be calling to issue him with some task. I’d be demanding Holland Harper’s number before instructing him to clear my schedule. For three months, at least.
Would three months be enough?
I’m sure I could give it my best shot.
Three months of fucking Holland to get her out of my system.
Or die trying. The corner of my mouth hitches because what a way to go.
Of course, it would also work the same the other way around. Three months for Holland to grow heartily sick of me. Three months of staid conversations outside of the bedroom, of her wondering why I’m so withdrawn. Of her tiring of my sullen face and preoccupation of all things not her.
Or three months for us both to fall in love.
In the mirror on the opposite wall, my tiny smile turns cynical. Three months is a relationship shelf life for me. I don’t own my own life. As the thirteenth Duke of Dalforth, I’m wedded to the name, my free time stolen, all thoughts of self growing dusty on a shelf marked self-indulgence, do not touch.